Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of
heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the read more

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of
heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his
sandal shoon.

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
read more

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live.

Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
Crushing the beetle read more

Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings read more

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant read more

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness:
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,